


Taste of Thought

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [37]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hunting, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 37: Flavor.  Dean errs slightly on a hunt – but only slightly.  Involves Dean and John on a hunt, and Dean getting injured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

Dean twitches his stiff muscles, checking to see that his fingers and toes are still working before he moves. And when he does move, it’s slowly, extremities first, working inward, searching for injuries, praying there aren’t any broken bones he’s going to jostle. It takes a long time, and the whole while his brain is alternating screaming at him about Dad’s potential location, and complaining about the mouthful of dirt and blood he obtained while he was face down on the forest floor. God damned bogles. Shit. The blood’s coppery taste mingles with the earthy dirt and faint flavor of what better not fucking be fungus. Dean spits as he sits fully upright, and then Dad’s coming through the trees towards him.

“Good job, son.”

“Wha?”

Dad points, and there on the ground is the bogle. He watches his father ring the creature with salt, and throw a blend of Scottish Heather and barley atop it, and it fizzles and dissipates into the earth.

“You take another blow to the head? Let me see.” John goes through the concussion check routine, satisfies himself that this time Dean’s not concussed, though it looks like he’ll have a hell of a headache. “Remember what happened?”

Dean thinks about it. It’s pretty fuzzy, but… he looks behind him. Shit. Dad spots it at the same time Dean does, the deadfall rigged to collapse at the least hint of motion – the bogle had led him straight to it. Dad shakes his head.

“Sucks when they’re smart,” Dean mutters, and gets a frown from his Dad.

“Surprised you missed that.”

“Was sighting on the run.” It’s all he’ll say, his father knows. It means he cleared the area with a visual, and yeah, it’s possible to miss a well camouflaged trap like that, especially after you’ve narrowed your world to targeting. The thing is, their family doesn’t have room to miss details like that, and Dean knows that he’ll be suffering through hours in the woods, extra training and all. The only question is which family friend they’ll be with. Likely Jim, since they’re about to go pick up Sam. This was the last of four bogles, and thank god Sam had called to tell them that little sweet bit of information, because it saved them a beating. Or, well, saved John a beating. Dean was gonna ache for days.

“Anything bleeding?”

“Nah. Let’s go.” He spits again, trying to clear his mouth of the blood. He probably bit his lip, it feels as if he did, at any rate. He’s trying to assess the tone of his father’s voice, figure out how much trouble he’s in. Extra training, sure. More than that? He wasn’t sure.

John’s a better observer than his son is, though the shape Dean’s in has likely dulled his observational skills some. John knows the boy’s watching him, trying to figure out how much trouble he’s in, and John takes a moment to reflect on the number of trips Dean’s taken over his knee in the last months. Quite a number, he thinks to himself. Twenty-eight years old. He shakes his head, aware that it creates what could only be called a nervous tic in his son. He knows exactly what he’s going to do – he’s gonna let the boys catch up with one another when they get back to Jim’s, see that the training course is updated, and then let Dean run it over and over again. Because mistakes really do happen on a hunt – and this was a simple one, one that can be rectified by better training. It’s not something the boy deliberately failed at, not something the boy needs to think about, it’s just reflexes. He’s satisfied that this is the best choice for Dean, and simply begins the post-hunt routine – thinking that there'll be a few modifications.

They’ll return to the motel, John will claim the shower while Dean strips down the weapons and cleans them – not exactly a punishment, but making the boy do it will drive a point home, because the person in the best shape showers last as a rule, but that won’t be happening tonight. He’ll stow the gear that Dean’s cleaned when he’s out of the shower and waiting for the boy, fix them some sandwiches, and have the med kit laid out for when his son wafts out of the bathroom on a cloud of steam. Make Dean sit while he cleans out the minor cuts he’s acquired, bandage the ones most likely to be infected, and watch with amusement as Dean realizes he’s taken care of his own cuts while the boy was showering, another alteration from the normal hunt routine.

It’s about that time that Dean will begin to be thoroughly uncomfortable, something John’s planning on. They’ll work out a sit-rep for the hunt, go over where the mistakes were made, and at the moment that Dean expects to be punished, John will smile, praise him for his good work with tracking and for his marksmanship, and send him to bed. Let the boy worry things out. They’ll be back with Sam and Jim soon, have their family together, and that’s the taste that John’s looking for, the flavor of family that’s bound together, and know exactly what one another need.

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Mozart - Requiem


End file.
